


doublet and hose in my disposition

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gender Identity, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), Just some queer Shakespeare-fueled softness, References to Shakespeare, Shakespeare Quotations, They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Trans Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26738506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: Aziraphale fidgeted rather merrily outside of Shakespeare’s Globe, dressed to the proverbial nines. You see, he was waiting on someone. Well, perhaps waiting was the wrong word.Aziraphale was standing outside of Shakespeare’s Globe and hoping.Actors/boyfriends Aziraphale and Crowley take in a showing ofAs You Like It.Aziraphale thinks he has something to prove. Crowley's just there to love him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	doublet and hose in my disposition

**Author's Note:**

> This little one-off sort of takes place in the universe of my fic "no more unhandsome," but it's totally okay if you haven't read that. This is just some established relationship date night/gender euphoria fluffiness.
> 
> Aziraphale is working out some confidence issues related to his gender identity here, which is something I really needed right now, but please feel free to sit this one out if that's not good for your beautiful heart. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Aziraphale fidgeted rather merrily outside of Shakespeare’s Globe, dressed to the proverbial nines. You see, he was waiting on someone. Well, perhaps waiting was the wrong word.

Aziraphale was standing outside of Shakespeare’s Globe and hoping.

_“Angel,” Crowley had rolled their eyes fondly, tossing long crimson curls over their shoulder. “Explain this scheme to me again.”_

_“I think you’re being purposefully obstinate about this, my dear,” Aziraphale flushed pink at their own boldness. “I think you just like making me say it.”_

_“Oh, I do,” Crowley drawled, winding their arms around Aziraphale’s waist and bringing their lips to their throat, lightly enough to drive Aziraphale mad._

_As Crowley dotted kisses all over Aziraphale’s neck and shoulders, Aziraphale told them the plan again._

_“Would that- ah,” Aziraphale let out a trembling sigh as one of Crowley’s kisses turned into a sharp bite sunk into their shoulder. “Would that be alright with you?”_

_“Love you, don’t I?” Crowley’s brilliant golden eyes flicked up to meet Aziraphale’s worry-blue ones._

_“You do, I believe.”_

_“Then whatever you want, angel. Always.”_

When Aziraphale finally noticed them, his breath hitched and his heart did a complicated somersault off a metaphorical high dive. They were leaning against a railing by the water, their back to Aziraphale. Still, Aziraphale knew no one else in the world had such perfectly flaming candy apple hair.

Such _short_ candy apple hair.

Aziraphale had seen Crowley just that morning, of course, and their hair had hung nearly to their waist then. Aziraphale remembered the first time he’d had his own platinum curls lopped off. How he’d agonized over the decision, how he’d wept the night before, worried he was doing the wrong thing, worried he still wouldn’t be enough. He so admired how fluid and seemingly defiant Crowley could be about their own presentation. They looked stunning in everything: an evening gown, in a mini skirt, in joggers and a crop top, and, tonight, in a sharp all-black suit. Aziraphale longed for this to one day feel playful to him. For him to have power over it instead of feeling like it had all the power over him. 

_“Do you think I’m terribly stupid?” Aziraphale groaned their own embarrassment aloud as they flopped back dramatically onto their pillow. Crowley rolled over and propped themself up on their skinny elbows._

_“What’s important to you is never stupid, Aziraphale,” Crowley pointed out, always stubbornly supportive._

_“I just want to do something special,” Aziraphale hugged themself around the middle. “It was our first show together and I want to do it all right. And I want to be right.”_

_“Hey,” Crowley frowned. “You’ve never been wrong. That bit’s impossible, okay? We’re all just figuring this shit out as we go.”_

_“I know,” Aziraphale sighed. “I do still worry sometimes I’ve come to this all too late.”_

_“Never too late, angel,” Crowley leaned down to press a kiss to their forehead. “To thine ownself, remember?”_

_“Trying to seduce me with the Bard, darling?”_

_“Aren’t I always?”_

Aziraphale walked carefully over to Crowley and raised a cautious finger to tap them on the shoulder. Crowley turned around slowly, a grand reveal. Aziraphale nearly squeaked. They were so _handsome._ It was effortless. The effect of the suit, the hair, those damn sunglasses which Aziraphale pretended to hate…

“Fancy meeting you here, angel.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale stammered, nearly forgetting everything they’d discussed. “Hello, Crowley.”

“What’s a handsome bloke like you doing all alone on a Saturday night?”

Aziraphale wondered when the word “handsome” would stop exploding behind his heart like fireworks. He did feel it, though. He could admit it to himself, however shyly. He and Crowley had picked out the suit together. Cream-coloured with a shiny blue bow tie that set off his eyes. 

There they were. Just two handsome fellows standing by the river, all dressed up and with somewhere to go.

“As it happens,” Aziraphale picked up the script, willing himself into confidence. “I have an extra ticket for tonight’s performance. Join me, won’t you?”

Crowley grinned a wide grin and, oh, Aziraphale wanted them to swallow him whole. 

“What’s the play?”

“ _As You Like It,_ my dear.”

“You know how I feel about the funny ones.”

“I do at that.”

_“So, another first date?” Crowley hopped out of bed entirely naked and strolled to the closet. “Whatever shall I wear?”_

_“That’s part of it,” Aziraphale explained, hoping they didn’t sound offputting in their enthusiasm. “If you’re quite comfortable with it dear, I’d like for us to both present in a masculine fashion.”_

_“Boyfriend date night, then?” Crowley began flicking through the jackets and ties on their side of the closet._

_They already called one another “boyfriends,” because who was there to stop them? Aziraphale already dressed in waistcoats and trousers most days. But they were exploring new steps every day, it seemed. “Men’s” deodorant early on, of course. A binder one day._

_Pronouns another._

Aziraphale offered Crowley his arm, thrilled to his bones to be doing something that felt so classically chivalrous. He wanted to sweep Crowley off of their expensively-clad feet. Crowley took his arm, still grinning that huge grin of his. A grin so sincere and wonderful almost seemed misplaced, Aziraphale thought, on such a tragically cool face, but there it was.

And it was for him. 

Two handsome gentlemen strolled arm and arm into the yard of Shakespeare’s Globe to lean against one another and watch As You Like It. It was the play over which they’d first fallen in love, after all. Crowley as the daring and beautiful Ganymede and Aziraphale as the devoted and besotted Orlando. 

(Don’t worry. They had agreed ahead of time not to mouth the words along with the actors onstage. They knew better.)

“ _My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal,_ ” Ganymede sighed onstage and Aziraphale sighed right along with them. He quite understood.

Aziraphale and Crowley stood side by side throughout the entire play, fingers curled simply together. They weren’t the sort to be overly affectionate in such a situation; they were too focused on the language and action of the play. An overwhelmed-in-love squeeze exchanged among fingers when a particular line of dialogue struck one of them in the heart was enough.

Curtain call came (it always does), and Aziraphale turned to Crowley, feeling utterly, transcendently happy. There he was. At Shakespeare’s Globe and in love. He could still hardly believe it most of the time. All his grand notions of pretending to be on another first date with Crowley were rapidly unraveling. He didn’t need to prove anything, he was discovering. He had been himself when they’d first met and he was himself now. Perhaps even always.

“Changed my mind,” Aziraphale murmured, taking one of Crowley’s hands in both of his.

“What’s the plan, then, angel?” Crowley tilted their head to one side, showing off their freshly shorn neck. Aziraphale shivered a little as he realized just how much he longed to drag his tongue over that exposed, gorgeous skin.

“Let’s go home,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You sure, Az? I thought you wanted tonight to be something special.”

“If you’ll forgive me, dearest,” Aziraphale smiled. “I can’t think of any place more special than the home I share with you.”

“Soft,” Crowley scoffed, but they wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders all the same.

They went home together, holding hands and discussing the production, hands fluttering excitedly as they spoke. (They were sweet nerds, the pair of them, nice suits notwithstanding.)

As they reached the door to the flat they shared, Crowley stopped to press Aziraphale firmly up against the door, fingers digging into his pockets to pull them closer together. 

“You do have quite a penchant for that, my dear,” Aziraphale remarked as Crowley ground their perfect, wicked hips ever so slightly against Aziraphale. 

“Is it my fault I’ve just seen a romantic play with the handsomest man in all of London?” Crowley’s voice was something of a growl, low and wanting. Aziraphale knew it well. “I’m terribly overcome, angel. Might even swoon.”

“I’d catch you, you know,” Aziraphale answered, softer than he’d meant. He never could help it. He’d work himself up to try to be terribly, well, sexy and it always devolved into utter softness. 

“ _Come,_ ” Crowley’s eyes sparkled behind their glasses. “ _Woo me, woo me. For now I am in a holiday humour and like enough to consent._ ”

Explicit consent and a bit of Shakespeare? It was all the permission Aziraphale needed.

“Darling,” Aziraphale breathed into Crowley’s mouth as he kissed them into their bedroom. 

“Dearest boy,” Crowley answered, stealing one of Aziraphale’s lines.

Because he was. In fact, he always had been.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Wherever you are on your journey, you're doing great and we're all proud of you.


End file.
